


there's a change in the weather and it gets to you

by reachthetree



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cemetery, Fluff, Ice Cream, Kissing, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Non-Binary Montparnasse, Other, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reachthetree/pseuds/reachthetree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Excuse me if I interrupt,” says a melodic voice behind them. “But if you’d like to sit down, don’t let me stop you.”</p>
<p>Montparnasse turns around, and Floral Boots is gesturing to the empty space beside them on the bench. They can’t avoid their face now that they’ve spoken, so they look at it. It’s a pleasant face, adorned with a smile befitting the sunny weather but less befitting the setting.</p>
<p>“I was just about to leave.” Montparnasse doesn’t smile. “But thanks.”</p>
<p>Floral Boots shrugs. “Just thought I’d offer,” they say, unbothered, and pick up their book again. “Have a nice day, little scarecrow.”</p>
<p>It’s the same word that people use to make fun of them, but from this person it sounds almost like a pet name. Montparnasse frowns. Little?</p>
<p>They turn on their heel and leave without saying anything back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a change in the weather and it gets to you

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff in a cemetery? My first Les Mis fic? What?
> 
> Yeah um so this fic contains some casual and some more serious talk about death, so steer clear if that bothers you. (If it makes you feel better the dead character isn't a Les Mis character, so at least there's that. Also the kissing doesn't happen in the cemetery.) And yes they're both non-binary because I can do what I want, but there's literally no discussion about gender in it, in case you were wondering. 
> 
> The title is from a song by The Concretes called "Change In The Weather".
> 
> I think that's it? Enjoy. :) xx

There are two major reasons Montparnasse dislikes sunny weather. One is that it makes their all-black aesthetic uncomfortably hot, and sweat isn’t something they like to incorporate in their appearance, however realistic and gritty it may be. The other is that when the sun’s out, they don’t get the cemetery to themselves.

Who the fuck goes to the cemetery at ten in the morning? Montparnasse pushes the iron gate open with one hand, holding takeaway coffee in the other.

They walk the gravel path with their head down, leaving the few people that are there to their grief. They hear someone talk, saying, “I need your advice on this, dad.” They walk faster but they’re within earshot when the person’s voice breaks. “I miss you so fucking much.”

The air is filled with the scent of spring, of fruitful earth and new life, but sorrow doesn’t change with the seasons. Montparnasse clenches their teeth together. Their feet walk by themselves by now, their body knows the way as if by instinct.

When they get to the right grave, however, there’s a person sitting on the bench facing it. Montparnasse carefully avoids raising their gaze so they won’t have to talk; all they see before turning the other way is a pair of floral leather boots and legs in lilac leggings.

They take a breath, but they don’t feel like meditating on this like they usually do. Phone out immediately, make sure the distance and placing in the frame is right, then the silence where a click would be. Done. They post it on Instagram on the spot, no filter, no caption. Same as every day.

“Excuse me if I interrupt,” says a melodic voice behind them. “But if you’d like to sit down, don’t let me stop you.”

Montparnasse turns around, and Floral Boots is gesturing to the empty space beside them on the bench. They can’t avoid their face now that they’ve spoken, so they look at it. It’s a pleasant face, adorned with a smile befitting the sunny weather but less befitting the setting.

“I was just about to leave.” Montparnasse doesn’t smile. “But thanks.”

Floral Boots shrugs. “Just thought I’d offer,” they say, unbothered, and pick up their book again. “Have a nice day, little scarecrow.”

It’s the same word that people use to make fun of them, but from this person it sounds almost like a pet name. Montparnasse frowns. Little?

They turn on their heel and leave without saying anything back.

*

The next day, it’s raining. Little drops that hang in the air and soak through your jeans. The gate squeaks when Montparnasse opens it today, and they smile.

Alone at the spot, Montparnasse takes their time, and ignores the damp clinging to their clothes. They’ve got nowhere to be, at least nowhere that won’t wait.

The grave, of course, is exactly the same. A small stone, engraved with a name, two dates, and nothing else. No flowers wilting pathetically beside it, for which Montparnasse is thankful. Just grass, glistening in the rain.

It’s been a year, a little more than, and Montparnasse has been doing this every day since. Around ten in the morning, a picture. Even when they’ve been hungover. Sometimes they’ve stayed awake to come here before passing out.

They hold a hand over the phone while taking the picture, to shield it from the rain. It doesn’t help much, but still. Montparnasse posts it and only then do they feel how cold they’ve become in their wet clothes.

At home, Eponine is making noodles. She doesn’t ask where they’ve been, just hands them a bowl in silence.

*

Montparnasse is late. They had to meet up with a client in the morning, and it took longer than expected. It’s past eleven when they slink through the gate, just behind someone carrying an armful of pink carnations. Walking fast, they crush the gravel under their wedged heels, and ignore the pointed looks from an elderly person sitting on a bench. You don’t powerwalk in the cemetery, you just don’t. Montparnasse does, though.

When they reach their destination, the bench is occupied again. Montparnasse bites back a sigh. They recognize the floral boots, although the leggings are different. They’re powder blue this time.

“That’s not appropriate dress for a cemetery, you know.” Montparnasse looks the person up and down with their most judgmental face on. Most people they look at like that start stammering and mumbling, knowing themselves to be defeated.

This person stops scribbling in their notebook, and looks up at Montparnasse calmly.

“And why is that, exactly?” They raise their eyebrows, and Montparnasse is lost for a moment. When they don’t say anything immediately, Floral Boots continues, “you’ve disrupted my flow, now, so the least you can do is explain.”

Disrupted _their_ flow? Montparnasse bites their teeth together. Hell no. 

“People are grieving here,” they say with enough salt in their voice to preserve meat for several winters. “You really need more explanation?” They smile contemptuously.

“What makes you think I’m not grieving?” The words are spoken softly, and Montparnasse swallows. They’re used to people cowing before them when they’re mean. No one ever argues. Eponine, of course, doesn’t cow, she just rolls her eyes and lets Montparnasse have their act intact.

Floral Boots is ruthless.

“Grief can take many forms,” they go on now, “and mine is in here.” They put their hand over their heart. “I dress like I always do, yes. I think that’s what she would have liked. It’s too bad you have a problem with it.” The last words are spoken in a sarcastically sweet tone.

Montparnasse can feel their aesthetic getting ruined as their cheeks heat up. “Whatever,” they mutter. “Do as you like.”

This earns them an amused grimace, and they turn away. When they lift their phone to take the picture, they can hear the light scraping of pen against paper. They frown, then take a picture, post it, same as always.

Except it’s not the same, because Montparnasse is hyper aware of the person behind them. The birds are singing, their air smells like earth, and Montparnasse has company whether they want it or not. They can still hear the sounds of writing, but then it stops.

“Did you know her, then?” The person asks.

Montparnasse flinches. Usually when they’re rude, people leave them be. Who the fuck is this person? They turn around.

“Does that matter?” They can feel the heat on their face still, and the Instagram account doesn’t seem so cool anymore.

Floral Boots smiles, tight-lipped. “To me, yes. Because I did, and I’ve never seen you until now. So I wonder, is your presence here something she would want?”

The words are spoken ever so softly, but Montparnasse hears the scathing criticism in them loud and clear.

“She was an artist,” they manage to say, only a slight tremble in their voice. “I’m here doing an art project. Do you think she would approve?” The last part is meant to sound sarcastic, but Montparnasse hears themself fail; the question hangs in the air, uncomfortably earnest.

To their surprise, they get a smile. “I think she would, yes. Thank you for telling me.”

Montparnasse’s heart is beating erratically under their pleather jacket. “All right?” That’s not what they want to ask, nor what they should respond, but it’s all they can do right now.

Floral Boots nods. “All right.”

That seems final, so Montparnasse shoves their hands in their pockets and walks away. The birds are still singing, and their blood is still pumping fast.

*

Montparnasse didn’t use to like art. Not the kind of art you hang on walls, anyway; they found it to be pretentious and useless and money badly spent. Montparnasse likes art that you can wear, consume, taste, touch.

But then one day they had an errand to the local library, meeting someone in the ladies’ bathroom, and on their way out they were confronted with a neon sign on the wall. The sign simply said: _What are you afraid of?_ Montparnasse scoffed, even though the hallway was empty. Warily, they went closer, until the neon light stung in their eyes. On the wall below it was a little sign that said “Alline Ontiveros, ‘love series # 34’, 2015” in clean black letters.

They made a note on their phone, and googled when they came home. All her pieces were like that; questions, questions that have been asked millions of times, but with no other context than ‘love series’ they became something else. _Why did you leave? Did you forget my birthday? Have you seen the flowers? Isn’t it too early for this to end?_

And Montparnasse felt a connection with it. They didn’t tell anyone, but they kept themselves up to date with her. Alline Ontiveros.

They didn’t expect her to be mortal, and they didn’t expect to be so affected. When they saw her obituary, they went out and got into a fight. But a split lip and bruises blooming all over them didn’t help that time. They waited for the restlessness to cease for months.

Only when they started their project, it calmed down. Montparnasse knows it’s simple, and anyone could do it, but the same was true for her art. And that had meant something.

So they take pictures, post on Instagram to a very small following, and it feels like creating. It might not mean something, but it stills their soul temporarily.

Only now they’ve been found out. Montparnasse isn’t sure they like that.

*

The next day when Montparnasse dresses to go to the cemetery, they take some extra time on their hair. It’s sunny out, again, which means a hat would be good, but they want their hair to look impressive. You can dress to kill all you want, but a bad hairstyle can ruin it. It takes them a half hour to look perfectly disheveled and carefree, and satisfied with the combination of that and a low-cut top, they head out.

They don’t care about the other people in the cemetery today, but they stroll past, a strange energy reverberating inside them. Maybe it’s the spring. Maybe it’s allergies. They take a deep breath as they walk. A small breeze cools their skin, but the wind isn’t strong enough to undo the massive amount of hairspray on their carefree hairstyle.

Montparnasse doesn’t know if they want the bench to be empty or not, but it doesn’t matter, because it isn’t. Floral Boots looks up when they hear the gravel crunch, and salutes Montparnasse with a smile in the corner of their mouth.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” they joke. There’s no book or notebook on their lap today, just their hands. They’re wearing big, clunky rings, the sun reflecting in the metal.

“There’s an easy solution to that, you know,” Montparnasse responds before they can think it over. That energy inside them is fearless.

“And what might that be?” Floral Boots looks amused, which isn’t how strangers usually look at Montparnasse. Then again, maybe they aren’t strangers anymore.

“I come here the same time every day.” Montparnasse crosses their arms and cocks a hip, looking Floral up and down. They’re in a dress with pineapple print today. “You could be here any other time, but you’re always here when I am. So.”

They laugh, too loud for a second before they mute it with a bedazzled hand. “I’m sorry, that’s just hilarious. Who says you have dibs?”

Montparnasse, against their will, smiles. “Dibs? On a person’s grave? Really?”

Floral shrugs. “You’re very dramatic about death for someone dressed like it, little scarecrow.”

The strange energy inside them thrums with new tenacity. “I’m just trying to be respectful,” Montparnasse mutters, but there’s no bite in it. They must be allergic to pollen, and that’s why they’re not in top form.

“I understand that.” Now they’re gentle again, and Montparnasse is taken aback. They never see these changes coming; this person is like a thunderstorm that suddenly puts a rainbow in the sky.

They’re quiet while Montparnasse does their thing, but as soon as they put their phone back in their pocket, they ask, “what’s your art project?”

Montparnasse turns around, and the person is pointing to the vacant space beside them on the bench.

The wood feels warm through Montparnasse’s jeans, and this close, they can discern a scent of citrus.

“I’m Jean Prouvaire, by the way.” They’re offered a hand, and take it, squeezing it menacingly hard out of habit. Jean Prouvaire doesn’t flinch. “But call me Jehan.”

“Montparnasse,” says Montparnasse, and quickly lets their hand go.

They haven’t sat on this bench many times, preferring to stand closer. It’s nice, peaceful; they can see why one would like to sit here and read.

“You don’t have to tell me about the project if you don’t want to,” Jehan says, and tilts their head sympathetically. “I’m just curious.”

Right. Montparnasse swallows. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me what you were writing the other day.”

Jehan laughs again, but quiet this time. “You drive a hard bargain.” They grin. “Sure.”

“It’s just simple, all right?” Montparnasse rubs their palms on their jeans, then puts their hands in their pockets so they won’t fidget. “I just take a picture every day of the year, around the same time, and post it on an Instagram account.”

They’re not looking at Jehan, but when they speak, they sound serious. Not mocking. “Is there a specific thought behind it?”

Montparnasse turns their head to look at them. They’re leaned towards them, face earnest and interested. It’s almost difficult to look at.

“Sorrow doesn’t change with the seasons,” they say. “Or something like that.”

Jehan nods. “It is simple,” they say carefully, “but most profound things are. Only the meaningless dresses up in grand productions and complicated words.”

There’s a beat of silence. “What are you writing, then?” Montparnasse clears their throat.

“Oh, right!” Jehan sounds happy. “I forgot. It’s a love series, inspired by Alline’s obviously, mostly about the nightmare side of love. It’s mostly for myself, to be honest.”

Montparnasse nods. “My thing is, too.”

“So you get it.” Jehan smiles. “A true creative, dressed like a scarecrow.”

The breeze is cool and soft on Montparnasse’s face, a contrast to the warm air they huff out. “You keep calling me that. You have a habit of nicknaming people you don’t know?”

“Only the interesting ones,” Jehan responds easily. “You don’t?”

“Not to their faces, I don’t.” The bench really is quite comfortable, Montparnasse thinks, the wood well worn and sat in, under the shade from a willow tree.

“But in your head?” Jehan raises their eyebrows. “What did you call me in your head, before?”

This would be the time to lie. Montparnasse is well trained in lying, does it like second nature by now. It would be so easy to say ‘nothing’ and change the subject.

“Floral Boots,” they say.

Jehan claps their hands together, and a bird takes flight from the tree. “That’s delightful! You should have called me that to my face, I would have loved it.”

These allergies are really annoying; Montparnasse feels tight in their chest now. “I didn’t know that, did I?”

“Hmm.” Jehan ponders this with a hand on their chin. “You seem a lot more sensitive than you look, little scarecrow.”

Montparnasse’s face heats up again. There’s something you don’t hear every day. Montparnasse, sensitive? Absolutely, and Eponine is straight, the moon is a cheese, and I went to a great ice cream place in hell last week.

“Clearly you don’t know me, Floral,” Montparnasse manages.

Jehan just smiles. It’s infuriating. “Maybe not,” they admit. “But I would like to.”

Montparnasse stands up. “I have to go now,” they say. Good to know they can still lie at a moment’s notice. Jehan just looks at them, as if waiting for something, and Montparnasse weakens. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

“I will, s–” They pause. “See you tomorrow, Montparnasse.”

The name from Jehan’s lips sounds soft, resting on the _mon_ rather than the _ass_. Montparnasse nods, and then they’re off, walking too fast again.

*

“Since when do you dress up before noon?” Eponine watches them over her cereal bowl with an eyebrow raised. “Daylight booty call?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Montparnasse doesn’t look away from the mirror. “I always dress to impress, as you know very well.”

“Yeah, but you don’t usually pull out the full winged eyeliner look unless you’re–”

“I just feel like it, okay?” Montparnasse interrupts her. “No reason. Mind your own business.”

Eponine chuckles. “Fine, asshole. My own business is much more interesting, anyway.”

Montparnasse has no doubt, but right now they’re too distracted to be invested in anything other than their own.

Today is a cloudy day, but no rain, which is the perfect spring weather. Montparnasse has dusted off the one item of clothing they own that isn’t black, a red velvet suit jacket, and combined with a sheer t-shirt that makes their tattoos visible and winged eyeliner, tight jeans and boots with a heel to show off their legs, it really is a killer look. Most of the people where they’re going will already be dead, but still.

Jehan is writing again today. They’re so immersed in it that Montparnasse has to clear their throat before they look up, but their reaction is worth it. Their lips fall open and they look Montparnasse over slowly, seemingly without being able to control themself. Montparnasse smirks and lets them look.

“Wow, you look like a modern day gothic romance,” Jehan says finally. “Are you going somewhere after this?”

Montparnasse shrugs. “I work on my own time,” they say. It sounds more glamorous than it is. “So no, not really.” 

Jehan looks surprised, but doesn’t comment further. They’re silent for a few moments, so Montparnasse turns away and does what they came here to do. Once done, they put their phone back in their pocket, and glances over their shoulder at Jehan. They’re writing again, bent over the notebook and scribbling furiously.

Montparnasse walks over and sits down next to them. They don’t say a word, just listen to the wind rustling the new leaves on the trees, and the sound of pen against paper. The vague scent of citrus is still around Jehan.

“There,” Jehan says and puts the pen down. “That’s all I can do right now, I think.” And they turn their head to Montparnasse and smile.

“So you never let anyone read your stuff?” That’s not what Montparnasse most wants to ask, but it will do.

Jehan shakes their head. “I used to,” they say. “But I found that it made writing less satisfying, like the worth of my work was always defined by other people. So now I don’t. I feel better for it.”

That’s such strong integrity, Montparnasse thinks. “But isn’t writing communication? What happens to it when no one reads it?”

“Ooh, philosophical.” Jehan giggles. “I communicate with myself, I think. It works for me, but it might not for someone else. I just know how creating works for me, you know? People are different.”

Montparnasse nods. They stay silent, and cross one leg over the other out of habit, but it’s pleasing that Jehan’s gaze follows the line of it down to their boot.

As soon as the movement stills, they look away again. They stay in silence, looking at the grave in front of them. Montparnasse thinks that maybe they should leave, but they stay.

“She was my aunt,” Jehan says suddenly, and nods to the headstone. “That’s how I knew her.”

Again, Montparnasse is surprised. Jehan seems to know what they want instinctively, and it’s as thrilling as it is terrifying. They don’t even know anything about them, apart from their name and their thoughts on poetry.

“We didn’t hang out much,” they go on. “She didn’t get on with my father, so it was difficult to keep contact. Last time I saw her was before I went to university. She helped me decide that I should study what I wanted, not what was smart.”

Jehan sighs, and Montparnasse doesn’t know if they should ask something or wait. They end up waiting.

“It wasn’t smart to study creative writing,” Jehan goes on. “But I’ve never regretted it. That conversation we had, what she said… It changed my way of seeing the world. I wish I had made more of an effort to keep in contact.”

Their voice is small now, intimate, and Montparnasse feels like the wrong person to listen to it. 

“I’m sorry.” Their voice doesn’t sound so big, either.

“Thank you.” Jehan smiles, tentatively. “So I like coming here even though it’s too late, and try to make it better by creating in her memory. I know she would have loved that.”

Montparnasse doesn’t think, they just feel, and it’s not planned when their hand reaches out to rest atop Jehan’s. When they touch, Jehan lifts their head and looks in Montparnasse’s eyes.

“She would have loved your project too,” they say quietly. “So don’t feel like it’s silly.”

This is too much for Montparnasse. Not much phases them, in general, but this small soft hand under theirs and the gentle eyes looking at them… It makes Montparnasse feel like their body is too small for their soul. It’s ridiculous and impossible but it’s there.

They take their hand back. “Thank you.” The words sound stilted, and Montparnasse immediately regrets them.

“We can talk about lighter things, if you like.” And just like that, another change in the weather. Jehan does a half-smile, with one side of their mouth. “Like where you got that jacket?”

This, Montparnasse can handle. “That’s prescribed information, unfortunately.” They smirk.

Jehan exhales a breath of laughter. “Fine, be that way. I’ll get to know your secrets sooner or later, I think.”

Montparnasse rolls their eyes and denies it, but if their interactions thus far have been any indication, Jehan is right.

*

The next week that passes, Jehan is at the cemetery every day when Montparnasse gets there. They stay there longer and longer, talking with that nervous energy and excitement you do when you’re getting to know someone. And the birds chirp in the trees.

One day they’re talking about fashion when they’re rudely interrupted by Montparnasse’s stomach rumbling. It’s three pm and they haven’t eaten since nine. They feel their face redden, but Jehan just waves a hand like it’s nothing.

“I’m hungry too,” they say. “Want to get something to eat?”

And to Montparnasse’s surprise, whatever it is that connects them isn’t specific to that bench, that tree, that grave. They get sandwiches for cheap at a supermarket, then ice cream, and when Jehan asks to taste Montparnasse’s, they say yes.

It’s regular strawberry, but none of them point that out. Jehan leans over and licks, where Montparnasse’s mouth has just been, and then smacks their lips.

“Wanna try mine?” They hold out their mint chocolate chip, and Montparnasse knows very well what that tastes like, but they lean over and do the same.

Jehan squints in the sun. “You know, technically, now we’ve kissed.”

Montparnasse thought it, and yet they’re surprised that Jehan says it out loud. Ruthless, is what they are, in a strange gentle way Montparnasse has never encountered before. And they love it.

“By transitive property of ice cream.” Montparnasse can’t help grinning, even as it ruins their aesthetic.

“Exactly.” Jehan nods, and looks curiously at Montparnasse. “What?”

Montparnasse takes both their ice creams in a firm grip, Jehan’s hand under theirs, and leans in toward their face. When the scent of citrus comes over them, they stop, but Jehan meets them. Their lips press together, sticky with sugar, and Montparnasse feels like the ice cream is going to melt. 

It doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah gross, i know. come chat jehanparnasse with me on tumblr if ya want, i'm @ louismiserables over there! thanks for reading and all that jazz xx


End file.
